Like a Filly That Needs Breaking
by nachalainne
Summary: Set during the Marauders' Era, and somewhat AU. A young Lucius takes Marlene hostage, keeping her locked up under his drawing room. His only goal? To break her spirit before he kills her.


A rush of cold air washed over his feet as he stood near the open trap door. Roaring fires kept the rest of the manor well-heated throughout the cold months; the dreary, cavernous space beneath it, however, seemed immune to the warmth. Stepping into the black felt like walking into Azkaban, surrounded by dementors and dark memories – but the feeling that surged wasn't one of sadness or fear.

It was lust. And hunger. And need.

"_Lumos,_" he murmured, lifting his wand. In the far corner of the room, a small, dirty creature shivered beneath an equally filthy blanket. Her breathing was weak, but visible – rising in a mist from her lips.

For weeks he'd kept her locked down in this pit, unconcerned with her living arrangements or personal health. As winter drew closer, however, it had become far too cold for her to survive without his assistance, and he needed her alive.

A quiet voice awoke in the back of his mind: '_But why?_' He watched her tremble on the ground as he mused. The sound of her teeth chattering echoed in the nearly-empty space. '_What good will come out of keeping her? It would be safer to dump her body in the forest and be done with it._'

A silkier tone argued with the soft voice of reason. Sinfully sweet, he reminded himself that her purpose in his home was quite evident. '_She'll never be found… she can't escape, and after all – she's so very… fun._'

That she was.

A deft flick of the wrist vanished the iron manacles that chained her to the wall. Whether she was aware of her new freedom or not, she didn't move – too consumed with the cold and an unhealthy cough. Stepping forward, he scooped her up, tossing the blanket back to the ground with a disgusted grimace. There was no point in leaving the place so filthy; he made a mental note to reprimand his house elf for not thinking to keep her and her storage room cleaner.

She barely responded to him, laying limp and still in his arms as he carried her up the stairs, towards the light. Her skin felt like ice, and if he hadn't seen her breath, he might've believed she hadn't made it through the previous night. The shift in temperature from the space below to the cosy drawing room was remarkable, but not nearly enough. She needed heat – a lot of it – and as quickly as he could manage, if he expected her to live.

'_She will_.' The silky voice – his voice - answered.

Her dirty, naked body seemed so out of place in his home, as he passed from room to hallway to room. Every corner of the manor was magnificently decorated, kept in pristine condition, and a fine example of fashion and high culture. She was a raggedy, little mess of a woman, sorely in need of a bath.

So, he took her into his bathroom. No different from the rest of his home, it was ornate – not ostentatiously so, but still grandiose with a smattering hint of pretension. It wasn't intentional; it was simply who he was, well expressed in his choice of interior decoration.

He set her down in the claw-footed tub, mildly disgusted with the state of his shirt after carrying her. The dirt was easily taken care of – something his house elf could tend to in the blink of an eye, but the blood – leftover from the day before, no doubt, when he'd been a bit more vicious than usual – would require more attention. Still, it was nothing out of the ordinary. He unbuttoned it, discarding it – as he'd done with her ratty blanket – on the floor.

She continued to shiver in the bath, seemingly colder now than when she'd been chained to the cellar wall. The brilliant whiteness of the porcelain that cradled her showed in vivid detail the eerie blueness of her skin, predominately her mouth. Quickly, he twisted the silver, serpent-shaped tap, flooding the tub with warm, clean water. If he made it too hot, she could go into shock – but too cool and it wouldn't do her any good at all. Testing it briefly with his hand, he straightened up; magically fitting a stopper into the drain. With luck, she would come around enough to sit up some, and stop herself from drowning in his bloody bath. Just in case, he summoned a chair, tossed a thick towel over the back so he wouldn't have to lean against the cold metal, and sat – waiting impatiently for her reaction.

At first, she thought she was dreaming. She'd ignored the movement, hadn't noticed the footsteps or even heard him speak. She was accustomed to being manhandled, but typically more forcefully than he had when he picked her up – but perhaps she was too numb with cold to notice. Everything after that was warm and hazy in her mind, until the water cascaded over her toes. It felt like rain, but a very strange rain – and not at all Scottish, which was never anything less than frozen, even in July. She blinked, briefly noting a bright, blurry light above her – sunlight? She did feel significantly warmer all over, everywhere but deep in her bones.

The water level was quickly rising – up to her waist now, but she'd been locked down for so long that even the littlest movements felt like her muscles were tearing apart. She shifted her leg, ignoring the sharp sting. The water was warm – so much warmer than the air – and high enough to submerge her lower half; she slowly stretched out.

He watched silently, noticing a few small movements from his captive, but remained still. If nothing else, she was remarkably resilient. Others would have been broken by the torment he subjected her to day after day, to the frost and the filth, and the agony of being alone in the darkness. Time after time, however, she bounced back – even from the brink of collapse – to prove just how very stubborn she could be.

She was extraordinary, in the literal sense; all the more reason to keep her alive.

The water was drawing close to the rim of the tub – more than high enough to cover her entire body and hopefully stimulate her circulation enough to keep her from dying. Now, at least, her lips were no longer blue, but he had only a basic knowledge of healing – shock could still be on the horizon.

Another deft swish of his wand turned the tap back in the opposite direction, halting the water from overflowing. She seemed conscious enough to keep herself from drowning, although her mouth and nose were barely above the surface; she could breath, and that was satisfactory enough.

There was a rugged sort of prettiness to her, now that the dirt was melting away. He'd never understood, throughout history, how his fellow Englishmen had tolerated having such a barbaric set of people roaming around just to the north. Of course, the Scots had become somewhat civilized around the larger cities – but away to the west, where she was from and where the forests were as old as the clans themselves, they remained as hostile and inhuman as they ever had been. Her people seemed to speak in grunts, rather than an actual language. They wore mediaeval clothes, even by wizarding standards. They were ruddy, and stout, and lacked any sort of refinement that he, personally, valued above nearly everything.

He'd read in history books when he was younger about the conquering of the north. How English armies had beaten whole villages into submission, slaughtered the men like cattle and used the women for the only thing they could ever be good for. He found such behaviour distasteful – not in the sense that he felt morally outraged, but disgusted that his countrymen would sink so low as to fornicate with people that might as well have been classed as animals.

Seeing her there in his tub, clinging to life – the actions of his ancestors were more understandable, if nothing else. There was something ensnaring about an enemy as determined as she was. Like a prize filly, in need of breaking before it could be ridden – he wanted to find whatever force kept her going, and crush it to nothingness in the palm of his hand.


End file.
